The brass telegraph key clicked its final message as seventeen-year-old Evangeline Hartwell set down her cup of Earl Grey tea. The morning fog of New Londinium swirled outside the orphanage windows, carrying with it the familiar sounds of steam carriages clattering over cobblestones and the distant whistle of airships preparing for departure from the Grand Aerodrome. She had grown accustomed to these sounds over the past three years, ever since the terrible accident that claimed her parents' lives aboard their research vessel, the Prometheus.
"Miss Hartwell," called Mrs. Pemberton, the stern matron of St. Agatha's Home for Displaced Youth, "there's a gentleman here to see you. Most unusual, I must say."